green
by inflowers
Summary: green means yes, and green is understanding. luke/reid. if reid had left oakdale when he said he would.
1. green means yes

You didn't know he'd be here. Of course you didn't, it's New York and it's three years later. There was no way you could have known, but somehow you're not surprised. He's always had his finger on the pulse, and the opening of the hottest club isn't that much of a stretch.  
There's someone attached to his hip, but it's dark and you can't make out who it is. He's tall, he's brunette, but it could be anyone. You don't really care, anyway. Because you're over it – you're over him. He can be with anyone he wants to be, it just doesn't matter anymore.

Except that's not true. 

You try to ignore his presence, but you can feel him near you even across a crowded dance floor. You don't know whether he's seen you – but you can't bring yourself to look. You try to ignore it, focus on the man in front of you. The man that you've been trying desperately to have a relationship with, to varying degrees of success. The man that is always telling you how special you are, how much he's falling in love with you, how lucky he is that he found you. You want nothing more than to be able to tell him all those things too, because he's a genuinely nice guy. Intelligent, good looking, thoughtful. It's just that his name is Andrew, not Luke.

Andrew motions to you that he's going to get a drink, and you find yourself alone on the dance floor. You've never been one for dancing, or clubs in general – but Andrew had insisted, and it's the least you could do considering you can't love him. So you dance gently by yourself, trying to ignore what you can feel burning into the back of your head. His eyes – you know that he must have seen you by now, you've never felt more watched.

But you ignore it, because you have to ignore it. You've perfected the art of self preservation.

And you ignore it, until you can't ignore it anymore. Because a hand is on your hip, and it's digging – thrusting fingernails into the skin peeking out from underneath your shirt. Possessive and overwhelming, and you don't know how to move away from this even if you wanted to. You know who it is, even without turning around. He's pressing up against you and it's all you can do not to pass out.

He whispers harshly into your ear, moving his body closer to yours than you ever thought possible. "Tell me he drives you this crazy." And you can't, and you don't want to.

"He doesn't, does he." He's grunting and panting all over you, no space enough even for the music to thump between you. "He doesn't, I know he doesn't." The nails are still digging in, and it hurts – but you don't know whether its from the scratches or from the walls finally breaking down. 

You stop fighting, for the first time in years you just stop fighting what you know is true. No one has ever come as close to breaking you as the man thrusting up against you, and you've never wanted anyone else to try.

"He doesn't - he doesn't." You whimper, and it's so not like you. You're a distinguished neurosurgeon, but whenever he's around you're the same geeky teenager you've always thought of yourself as. But Luke doesn't mind, so neither should you.

He takes your hand and pulls you towards the door of the club, and you think fleetingly that you should tell Andrew. But you're too far gone and what would you say? Any explanation you give him would be lacklustre at most, so maybe it's best you say nothing at all. At least, that's the justification you're giving yourself. Because you're finally giving yourself something, what you've always wanted. Luke.

He drags you into a cab and his eyes are telling you not to talk. You spent months talking and not touching, and there's no time for talking right now. So you stay quiet, sitting on your hands for fear of reaching out and touching what is finally tangible and in front of you.  
You don't remember the trip to the hotel, or getting in the elevator. But you remember his hands pushing you against the wall of the lift and a slender hand reaching down the front of your ridiculously too tight jeans. You grunt in appreciation, but it's nothing compared to the noise you want to let out. A guttural moan, full of years of never quite getting what you want. But you don't want to scare him off, so you moan quietly against his shoulder and think _kiss him, kiss him, just kiss him._

But the doors ding open and you stumble out, his hand pulling you along the hallway. You try and compose yourself, noting the floral arrangements and the distasteful artwork in the hall - but the feel of his hand in yours is enough to make you sweat, and trying to contain it is useless.  
He slips the card into the lock, and you watch the light blink green. Green for go – green for good, correct, right.

Before you walk in behind him, your hand reaches out and grabs his, pulling him towards you. He crashes into your body, and you thread one hand through his hair and the other slips through his belt loop.

"Luke." You whisper, finally letting the word slip from the tip of your tongue. "Luke."

And he's repeating your name back to you, telling you all the things that you've wanted to hear for years. That it should have been you, that you never should have left, that he loves you and he'll go on loving you even if tonight is the last you see of one another. But you know it's not going to be – you know that one touch is never going to be enough. So you pull him closer and finally, _finally_ kiss him.


	2. green is understanding

You tumble into his hotel room, you're tugging his shirt out of his jeans and he's running a hand down your back. His hands feel like ice against your skin when he finally touches you, and you imagine this is what heaven is like.  
He whimpers gently as you pull away, and you quickly note the lust written all over his face. It's beautiful and touching and _so fucking hot _that you can't even look directly at him.  
"Reid." He whispers, pulling you closer towards him and unbuttoning your shirt, one agonising button at a time. You can't stand it, so you rip it all off and he laughs as the buttons flick around the room. "Eager, huh?" He asks, chuckling gently.  
But you don't answer him, you push towards him and meet him in a kiss. A teeth gnashing, soul destroying kiss because you know now, as you probably knew then, that Luke has changed you. Maybe for the better, maybe Katie was right - but all you can think now is how stupid you must have been to leave him. And you want him to know, so you kiss him so hard your front teeth can feel his and you pour everything you've ever thought, ever known, ever wanted into his mouth.

You can tell he knows.  
Shucking your shirt off, you reach towards him and pull his over his head, and run a hand down his bare chest. It's smooth and soft and just like you remembered, but older - and you think you can feel his heart through his skin. That feels different, as though it's been broken and put back together but the pieces don't quite match up the way they used to. Yours breaks at the thought that it was you, and you shrug the idea away before it has a chance to creep in and ruin the heat between you.  
He unbuckles your belt and slips it out, unzipping your fly at the same time. Before you realise it, he's pulled your too tight jeans down and you're stepping out of them quickly, maybe embarrassingly too quickly. But if he notices, he doesn't say anything. He takes you in his hand and you don't even realise how hard you've gotten until his hand makes a fist and starts moving, and you're undone.  
"Just." You start, but you stop. You have no words, there's nothing you can say. Nothing that will take away the pain you caused him, nothing that will make tonight have any more meaning than it already does. So you don't speak. You throw your head back and moan loudly, hoping that he knows it's all for him. All of it, all for him.  
He's leaning his head on your shoulder as he moves his hand up and down, stroking you and chanting at you._ "I missed you, I missed you."_ And you missed him too, but he deserves more than your words.  
So you push him towards the bed, undoing his jeans and slowly, painstakingly stripping them off him. You kiss him again, like it's the last time you'll ever do anything and he kisses you back. You wonder why, how you could ever have left. How you could have ever turned your back on perfection, and why nothing has ever come close to unravelling you quite the way he does.  
He's pressing lube into your hand and his eyes are begging you, _fuck me, fuck me, just fuck me_ - and you want to, more than you've ever wanted anything. But there's that niggling feeling that you don't deserve him, you don't deserve to have everything because you left. As if he senses it, he grabs your hand and you hold his gaze, and his eyes tell you everything you need to know.

_Its okay. I forgive you.  
_ Pressing finger after finger into him, you open him gently and kiss his face as he winces. It's a good pain, he's always told you. But you can't see that now, you can just see the physical manifestation of every horrible thing you've done to him - and you're so fucking sorry it almost makes you cry. So instead of apologising, you pull your fingers out and push into him and he cries out in what you know is pain, pleasure and release.

He's so tight around you, and you know then that it's always been you. The only thing that can complete him, that can fill the spaces in his body both physically and emotionally. It's always been you, and he's wanting you and needing you and you can't do anything but give it all to him.  
He's begging you to go harder, faster, deeper - but you want to be gentle with him. You'd never want to hurt him again, and you'd never want him to think you're taking him for granted. Not again, not after last time. So you're gentle and patient until he grabs hold of your arm and pulls you down so you're forehead to forehead. He locks his eyes into yours and pleads with you, _just do it_. So you do.  
You come first, shuddering inside him. You try to blink away the light fluttering in front of your eyes, and focus on him - on all of him. He's close, you can tell. And part of you wants him to crash all over you, but you don't want it to end. Not this soon, not when you've just found him again.

You're stroking him and he's writhing, whispering your name and breathing heavily. You tell him that it's okay, that he can let go and let it all out. And he does. He collapses, spent and unable to hold his own body weight. You fall next to him, a hand reaching out and landing on his chest.

Only then do you realise he's crying, and you can't tell whether it's because he's happy or sad - and you realise it doesn't matter that much. Because you're there, and you're wrapping him up in your arms and rocking him as he weeps with years of release and pent up frustrations.

You don't know what to do or say, so you just stay in his dark hotel room, stuck together with sweat and sex, and you understand.


End file.
